Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
Lucy couldn’t help her intake of breath. The swollen wound, held together with stitches like black caterpillars, wound across his inflamed flesh diagonally from the point of his shoulder across his collarbone to the top of his pectoral. A small tube inserted in the bottom was the culprit for most of the oozing. Maybe it was supposed to ooze. What did she know? She began to shake her head convulsively. “That looks really evil.”
He peered down at his own shoulder. “Ne yfel,” he said.
That was pretty clearly “not evil.” She looked up at him, her panic receding. Funny. Just the fact that he understood her made her feel not quite so alone in all of this.
“Ic cnwe wundes.” He grimaced.
She took a breath. It sounded like he said he knew wounds. With a pronounced accent, of course. Surprising that the words were the same, or almost. He said “ic” for “I.” But not surprising that he knew about wounds, what with all the scars on his body. She soaked some gauze with Betadine and daubed at his shoulder. It made the skin around the stitches a sickly yellow-orange.
“Hwet thes es?”
That was pretty clear, too. “For infection?” He didn’t understand and she didn’t know the word in Latin. “For rot?” That word she knew.
Rot he understood. He nodded again. “Ilca acetum.”
Yeah. That was what the Romans used on wounds. They might just be able to communicate in English sooner or later. What a relief that would be. Her Latin sucked for actually talking. Reading and translating were entirely different from speaking. Where could she get a Latin dictionary? Jake had said she couldn’t go online. A library? She couldn’t apply for a library card. Maybe she was no longer destined to own any kind of identification, even a library card. Sad, really. If she didn’t know herself, no one else would know her, either.
She daubed at the wound. Nothing she could do about the sticky gray streaks of adhesive the tape had left. She used the Betadine to loosen the tape on the bottom of the bandage. They’d shaved some of his right pectoral, or ripping off the tape might have hurt even more. How long until the stitches could come out? How would she know? Could she pull them out? Her stomach threatened rebellion and she pushed down the thought. Time enough for that later. She made a pad with the bandages and put it over the stitches, then took his good hand and pressed it against the pad so he could hold it in place while she taped it. She was going to need a lot more gauze, for sure. Target had a pharmacy. Definitely a trip to Target tomorrow.
Now for his thigh. She took a deep breath and pulled back the covers. God, did she have to blush at every turn? Another curse of red hair and fair skin. Target had boxer shorts, too. This bandage was bound with strips of gauze. She rose and went to rummage in the galley. She couldn’t find a scissors, so she got a paring knife. That would have to do. She tested the edge, but she needn’t have bothered. Of course Jake’s knives would be sharp. She stalked back to the bedroom. She was not going to let the fact that Galen was naked get to her anymore.
His eyes widened as he saw the knife. She glanced down. What was the Latin word for cut? She couldn’t remember, so she just pointed to the bandage on his thigh. “Be calm.” That was as close as she could get to “relax.” She stalked over and sat beside him. Vowing to keep a firm hold of herself, she cut the bandages and pulled them away. But she could feel herself getting redder and redder. She knew he was staring at her. She would not look at him. But when she saw his flat belly shake ever so slightly, her head jerked up in anger.
“You think this is funny?” She didn’t bother with Latin.
His lips straightened, but his eyes refused to sober. “An wif nedeth an gd mon.”
“I am not your wife, and I do not need a good man. And in case you haven’t noticed, you are wounded and in pain, and you should act like it. Am I going to have trouble with you?”
That sobered him up, though how much he understood was doubtful. She saw again that look of chagrin. No, more than chagrin. It was shame.
Finally he shook his head. The words he might not have gotten, but he sure understood that she was angry with him.
“Good.” She was ashamed herself for speaking sharply to a man in pain. But really! He had a disgustingly high opinion of himself. She pulled the bandage back with a little less concern for his comfort. The long, straight line of stitches was much less swollen than his shoulder, though this wound was draining, too. The skin around it was inflamed. Was that okay? She daubed at it brusquely. They had shaved the whole front of his thigh. The rest was dusted with light, curling hair. Sheesh. She was going to have to wrap his thigh. She wouldn’t be able to avoid having to touch him, his inner thigh, right next to his . . .
Her lips tight, she made a pad with fresh gauze and laid it lengthways over the stitches. “Hold it,” she ordered. He put his hand over the bandage gingerly. She pulled up his knee and wrapped the gauze around his thigh. Yep. Her knuckles brushed his flesh. His genitals were in clear view. It was awful.
And her reaction to the whole situation was worse. Was she becoming some kind of sicko that a wounded man could make her feel like this? She’d have to go change her underwear if she wasn’t careful. As if she had any to change into. When she had taped the ends of the gauze in place she rose, thankful to put some distance between them. She was about to leave as quickly as she could when she spotted the sling on the floor. She sighed.
Picking it up, she turned back to him. He had pulled the covers up. He was looking more relaxed. The Vicodin must have kicked in. She held up the sling. How did this thing work? Okay, this strap over his head. Lay his arm in here and buckle this little strap around his torso to keep his arm close. She pushed a breath out through pursed lips. Couldn’t do this from across the room.
“Ready?” she asked. Was she asking herself or him? He was looking mulish. “Don’t start.” He didn’t have to understand the words to realize the meaning.
He nodded, disgusted.
She laid his arm in the sling, then leaned over, very conscious of how close her breasts were to his face as she lifted the strap over his head. She heard him hiss in a long breath. Was he inhaling her scent? For God’s sake, was the man an animal? Or maybe she was hurting him. . . .
She pulled him forward. There was nothing for it but to rub against him as she reached for the strap to fasten around his ribs. Surely he would feel how her nipples were peaked. She fastened the little buckle with fingers that weren’t quite steady and practically dashed from the room. And to think she was stuck here on this tiny boat with him until he healed.
Whoa. And when he healed she might have an even bigger problem. Good thing she had a sword under her mattress. Now if she only had the skill and the stomach to use it . . .
Chapter 7
Galen’s body relaxed against the pillows as the pain receded. It was not gone, but it was better. Her tablets were more effective than the best valerium. The boat rocked against the dock, sealed against the biting wind outside. The blankets were warm, the bed soft. The glow of the strange lamp that did not burn at least wasn’t the stark light of the white room where he had first wakened. But his mind could find no comfort. He could hear the woman moving around in the area with the washbasin and the table. The sound of chopping drifted into his room. Occasionally she passed in front of the open door as she looked inside cupboards, sometimes retrieving a brightly colored container. She was barefoot, her red braid swinging. She had taken off the strange, tight jacket she wore and her arms were bare. Her skin was fine and pale. She must be rich to have skin so white. She had never worked outside. What would the soft flesh of her upper arms feel like in his hands? She carried a good weight, not like a starving peasant. She must be a noblewoman as well as a witch. He could not deny she was beautiful.